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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/25369408">Straight from the Horse's Mouth</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/RebrandedBard/pseuds/RebrandedBard'>RebrandedBard</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Fluff, Huddling For Warmth, Jealousy, M/M, Mutual Pining, POV First Person, i did this on a dare, roach's pov</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-07-18</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-07-18</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-05 09:41:05</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>2,286</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/25369408</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/RebrandedBard/pseuds/RebrandedBard</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>They were hardly different species; it was the difference between a haflinger and cob. Yet they acted as though they were night and day, cat and dog, blue and yellow. For a long time, they simply refused to smell the air and have out with it. Humans might not have the nose for it, but I’d seen my witcher use his well. I was certain he could smell every thought in the human’s head. The trouble is, it can be difficult to smell oneself, and he never was much for self-refection. As the years passed, our party grew closer, and the days and smells grew wearier, until I found it necessary to interfere on their behalf.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>23</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>258</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Straight from the Horse's Mouth</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><ul class="associations">
      <li>For <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/users/TidbitsAndThoughts/gifts">TidbitsAndThoughts</a>.</li>



    </ul></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Life with Geralt of Rivia was meant to be a life of quiet consistency. In every life. Anyone blessed with more than one would come to see it in time. The only changes were the seasons, the scenery, and the monsters slain. For many years that had been the way of things, and it was satisfying, knowing a day’s work and the rewards that came with, though sometimes the Path was a little dull between ventures. Or it was until my latest life. Then, the human came along.</p><p>He was colorful, he was loud, and he was always singing something. I thought he’d be gone by the end of the first day, surely, and I was not often wrong. It was surprising when by sunset he was still travelling astride. Geralt wasn’t one for chatty company; that was why we worked so well as a pair. He talked. I listened. It’s a wonderful thing having no obligation to contribute to the conversation, thinking whatever came to mind with no consequence, revealing nothing. There’s a humour in knowing more than others. And I <em>did</em> know such a lot more.</p><p>Jaskier, however, soon became comfortable enough to talk for me.</p><p>“Can’t we stop for the night? Oh, my aching hooves! And this dust is my primary abhorrence—see how it dulls the shine of my spectacular mane? I simply must rest and be brushed, dear witcher, or else I don’t know how I shall ever go on.”</p><p>There are moments where a well-placed snort speaks volumes, properly applied.</p><p>“Roach doesn’t sound like that.”</p><p>“Forgive me. I’m not yet familiar with the details of your mutations. I shall make note of it directly for my next grand ballad so that all the world may know that witchers commune with horses. Tell me, what is that bird twittering? And those frogs in the water there, do you speak their tongue as well? Their long, impossibly stretchy, slimy tongue?”</p><p>“I suspected <em>you</em> might. You invent lengthy nonsense every hour with <em>your</em> tongue.”</p><p>“Roach, will you be so kind as to tell your master the meaning of the phrase about flies, honey, and vinegar? His <em>prickly</em> tongue won’t win him many friends. Come, Geralt! If I am to reshape your image, I’ll need you to perform the part. Shouldn’t the friend of humanity be more friendly? You can start with me. I shall be that symbolic stand-in for my kind! What say you?”</p><p>“I say find a new muse.”</p><p>Dusty mane indeed. His theatrics were amusing, if exaggerated. One never knew what he meant to do or say next, but his surprises were a comfortable sort. There was nothing shocking or quick about him. He was boisterous, but honest. It was admirable at times the way he broke through the world and made himself known. Even his smell was out of place, though a pleasant thing, like finding a patch of sweet dandelions among the plain, dry grass.</p><p>Jaskier made himself at home as easily as a pebble made itself at home in a shoe. That was the way things started. At first, he was a nuisance, then one simply got used to him. Time changes all things like a river, making them smooth and polished. What was once a jagged pebble became a gemstone, and even his airy way of describing things was catching. He had a way of infecting one’s thoughts, whether by imprinting his manner of lofty speech into one’s patterns, or by being their subject. It’s an easy task to tell what a human, or even a witcher has on his mind simply by giving the air a gentle sniff. Heavy perfumes and adrenaline sweat could only mask so much, and Geralt’s scent changed often since the arrival of the tagalong bard.</p><p>Humans, naturally, are easier to smell out. They sweat so easily, and sweat is the greatest snitch. Witchers have a fainter scent, but it isn’t so difficult to notice once you became used to it. If either one wanted to keep their thoughts truly private, they’d do better to do their most secret thinking in the bath. When one knows all but can’t speak, obvious things become burdensome. There was never anything more exhausting than waiting for them, human and witcher, to learn to communicate.</p><p>They were hardly different species; it was the difference between a haflinger and cob. Yet they acted as though they were night and day, cat and dog, blue and yellow. For a long time, they simply refused to smell the air and have out with it. Humans might not have the nose for it, but I’d seen my witcher use his well. I was certain he could smell every thought in the human’s head. The trouble is, it can be difficult to smell oneself, and he never was much for self-refection. As the years passed, our party grew closer, and the days and smells grew wearier, until I found it necessary to interfere on their behalf.</p><p>“Geralt, why is Roach sniffing at me? I haven’t got any food. Make her stop, it’s beginning to make me nervous. The green is all fabric, I swear; this doublet isn’t woven out of grass. Shoo! Go have lunch elsewhere! Please, Geralt, I’m sure she’s about to start nibbling my collar any minute now—help me!”</p><p>“Have you been sneaking her treats again?”</p><p>“Guh! That you would—how <em>dare</em> you imply that I would upset the fragile balance of her diet, and after years of explicit directions and warnings otherwise.”</p><p>“I wasn’t implying; I was accusing.”</p><p>“In the decade we’ve travelled together, I’ve never snuck her a thing.”</p><p>Peppermints, apples, carrots, wild strawberries, snow peas—all delightful treats worth of the occasional suggestive nudge, but at that time, he hadn’t had anything so delicious to sneak for a week. A shame, for I was never so spoiled and had come to expect it. No, it was not for treats that I nudged.</p><p>It was for that smell, now nearly always constant. He hid it well with his oils and soaps, but no amount of covering could make it disappear, and if one knew what one was looking for, it was plain as day. Jaskier had smelled of that sour stench for days since the brothel, as if he hadn’t emerged stinking himself of no less than three workers, long after Geralt emerged smelling of only one. Jealousy, as bold and loud as the rest of him. The salty tang of sorrow beneath. Would that I had only one nostril, but alas, I was assailed by the scent on both sides, and Geralt’s had a particular bitterness to it. With the early arrival of winter, the smell was only more pronounced, the knowledge of their parting looming like a threat on the horizon, and not a bath in sight for days on end to dull either. Another winter of insufferable repression awaited. By then it had become routine, and a horse can only stand so much.</p><p>“Ger—Geralt, she’s <em>pushing </em>me. Down, girl—down! Heel! Whoa! Geralt, <em>do</em> something!”</p><p>Now phrases about flies, honey, and vinegar might have been well known among humans, but I’d never met a horse who could explain the phrase. However, I knew other more relevant idioms. A human often sighs when bringing a horse to water, frustrated to find it will not drink, and this has become something of a phenomenon—enough so to establish itself in their odd vernacular, but horses are much better at regulating their own needs. Now if horses were to have such phrases, it would be the other way round. You can lead a human to water, but you can’t make him drink, and I’ve known two who would let themselves die of thirst before doing what’s necessary. So it was time for a change of phrase. It was time to <em>make</em> them drink.</p><p>“Wh—the—the <em>lake!</em> Back! Stop! Ge—<em>Geralt!”</em></p><p>Two lifetimes, dead and reborn, have passed since that day and I haven’t forgotten the magnificent splash he made, falling back into the lake. Nor will I forget the sight of Geralt tossing his swords aside, leaping headfirst under the ice after with all the speed of a diving bird. Twelve years travelling with a witcher, encountering sirens, nereids, and drowners, yet the bard had never learned to swim. There are times, too, when being useless was useful, it turned out. Humans needed so much looking after. My part was done; it was time for Geralt’s.</p><p>“I’ve got you. Just breathe. What in the seven hells has come over you, Roach!”</p><p>Oh, far more than seven hells served as motivation. By then it was eleven. The first year was only a mild annoyance.</p><p>The fire was quickly made and the bard, by now blue in the face, bundled in Geralt’s spare clothes. Sweet progress, the both of them squeezed into one bedroll. At last, I thought, they might be close enough for even the weak human nose to smell the truth. A quick dip in frigid water was not enough to wash it away, and Geralt’s concern was only made sharper when they emerged. Even past the smoky wood and pine, it was strong enough that I could taste it.</p><p>“Melitele’s tits. My fingers are freezing. I can’t feel them; can you feel them?”</p><p>“Of course I can feel them. Here, can you feel this? Tell me if they’re too numb.”</p><p>It was a circus, watching them. One excuse after another dancing around. What strange courting rituals humans devised. Everything was so unnecessarily complicated. But intimacy could be pleasantly forced in extreme circumstances. If only they need not resort to such measures.</p><p>“Yes, I think I’m starting to get a bit of feeling back. Are you cold?”</p><p>“I’m fine. My mu—”</p><p>“Yes, yes, your miraculous mutations. I can feel you shaking, Geralt. Don’t act hard with me.”</p><p>“Tch. You must be fine. Your teeth aren’t chattering hard enough to silence you.”</p><p>“No, but I feel as if my lips are about to fall off. Look, are they blue?”</p><p>“ … ”</p><p>“Yours are paler than … not that I know their color, but, you <em>are</em> paler. In general.”</p><p>The human fascination with lips is yet another thing which has always escaped me. What was the function of kissing, and what made it so difficult? The action was simple enough, yet they sat for so long in silence. I’d nearly given up and decided it was time again to give a little nudge, but the scent in the air had changed.</p><p>“You should have left sooner. If you end up sick, you’ll have to suffer whatever care they have in town, and there isn’t much to offer this close to the mountains. You don’t have enough coin to stay in an inn without performing, and you’ll be in no fit state to do it.”</p><p>“Nobody could know the winter would come so quickly. I meant to see you to the final fork in the road, just as I do every year. Wouldn’t do to break tradition: might be unlucky. And even if I caught my death, I’d hold out at least a week for spite, and I’d die with my lute in hand. And what if I <em>do</em> get sick? Would you leave me in the hands of some innkeeper and trudge on?”</p><p>“Don’t be stupid.”</p><p>“Then what would you do with me? You only have so much time before the pass freezes up and you can’t waste it fussing over me in town. Your horse is responsible for nearly drowning me. You owe me a debt.”</p><p>“Half-drowned men aren’t as chatty as you.”</p><p>“Answer the question.”</p><p>The fire crackled peacefully. Such theatrics, but beneath them, the answer was obvious.</p><p>“We have medicine in the den. But you’d be snowed in until spring.”</p><p>“What a tragedy.”</p><p>“There’s no guarantee who will be there. It might be only you, me, and Vesemir. You’d be longing for company in a matter of days.”</p><p>“Why? Will you dump me in a room and lock me away until the end of winter?”</p><p>If given free rein to make a nuisance of himself, it wasn’t hard to imagine such a scenario a month down the line. It wouldn’t last more than a day, but it would be an amusing fight; one I very much looked forward to.</p><p>“No … but I’m not much company.”</p><p>“Twelve years says otherwise.”</p><p>And the smell again changed.</p><p>“Geralt?”</p><p>“Hm.”</p><p>“I can’t feel my lips. Can you?”</p><p>It was not often that Geralt laughed. I could count the number of times I’d heard it in the beats of a single stride. It was one of his more honest sounds, and he had not many. It was in that particular lifetime that I heard it first, and I’ve treasured the others that have followed since. It was a sound Jaskier was privileged enough to be present for each time. I knew—and still know—such a lot more than I can say, and I know with all certainty why that was.</p><p>“Of course I can.”</p><p>My poor, aching nose was rarely bothered again. And to ensure it, I may have snuck a blessing upon the bard. It’s been ten years since, but I don’t believe either of them have noticed. With senses as poor as theirs, it’s no wonder—they couldn’t see the love growing right in front of their noses. It’ll be another twenty years before they notice Jaskier has stopped aging, and likely another hundred before they realize they keep meeting the same horse over and over again. Ah, well. They’re slow to learn, but they get there in the end, just as sure as I always find them.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>My best friend TidbitsAndThoughts dared me to write a first person narration from Roach's point of view. Unfortunately, she knows exactly how to convince me to do something: spite and flattery. I hope everyone was paying close attention because I will NOT be doing that again. I abhor first person as a general rule. It made an interesting exercise, however, trying to use "I" as little as possible.</p><p>Fun fact! Horses have dichromatic vision in the blue and yellow spectrum. So rather than blue and orange being opposites (like on the human scale) Roach would use blue and yellow! Neat, huh?</p></blockquote></div></div>
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